


All Gamblers Die Broke

by hansbekhart



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, Gangbang, HYDRA Trash Compactor Challenge, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Light BDSM, Light Masochism, M/M, Pre-War, Recreational Drug Use, Secret cabal of rich homosexuals??, Sex for Money, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 10:57:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3689688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hansbekhart/pseuds/hansbekhart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You weren't expecting this," Thomas says, and strokes two fingers along the underside of Bucky's jaw.  </p><p>Bucky can speak through the mask - there's nothing stopping him - but he just shakes his head.  The chains rustle softly.</p><p>"It's just a game," Thomas tells him, his hand stroking Bucky's hair.  "Like I said.  Just a party, for some nice friends of mine.  You ever dress up for a party?  It's fun, isn't it?"</p><p>-</p><p>Because why should Steve Rogers have all the gangbang fun?</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Gamblers Die Broke

**Author's Note:**

> So I missed the dates a little for March's [Trash Compactor Challenge](http://stoatsandwich.tumblr.com/post/112695095561/the-march-hydra-trash-compactor-premise?utm_campaign=SharedPost&utm_medium=Email&utm_source=TumblriOS), but goddamn if the prompt image wasn't irresistible. (I mean seriously. Go look at it.) What can I say? I was inspired.
> 
> Endless gratitude to [stoatsandwich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoatsandwich), for putting these challenges on and for being awesome, relentless, trashy peer pressure. This one's for you, dude.
> 
> This isn't strictly HTP, but it's pretty trashy. Classy trashy? Secret cabal of rich New York homosexuals? An ordure party? 
> 
> Also, it takes place with basically the same characters from [When I Put Away Childish Things](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2315117). It's not necessary to read that first, just to know that Bucky's a nice boy from a nice interfaith family, at least most of the time.

  
  
It all started down at the docks. Bucky’s got a nice job, works as a clerk for a shipping company near the courthouse. He don’t go down near the docks too much, only when the invoices don’t match up with what actually came off the ship. It’s nasty smelling, and he’s has to take two different trolleys and walk a mile just to get down to the right dock, and the stevedores treat him like some kinda interloper, like he didn’t grow up in the same neighborhoods they did. They treat him like some kind of boss, but it’s not like he thinks he’s too good for himself or anything - his family just got lucky, they were able to get out and make something better than these guys did, you know?

So one day he'd had go down to the goddamn docks and wait around for goddamn hours while the stevedores did their count over and over, and came up with the same fucked numbers they'd sent over the first time, until all Buck could do was give up and run back to the office - and try and forget the way they'd grinned at him, sidelong, the way they knew he couldn't do nothing about. 

And this guy had caught him coming back from off the docks, ego bruised, and had made a mistake. Not a big one - he’d looked Bucky up and down and known that Buck wasn’t the kinda guy who’d bust his teeth in for what he was asking. But the guy - Bayard, he’d said, John Jacob Bayard - had clearly never been to Brooklyn in his life before and thought it was all a buncha hoodlums that lived there. He couldn’t tell the difference between Bucky and the rough trade he’d actually been there to pick up. But that was okay. Bucky, he’d grown up in the same neighborhoods as those kinda guys, and he’s pretty tough, you know? He could be exactly what that guy had been looking for.

The first time, he gave Bayard a suckjob in the back seat of his nice car, with its nice smelling leather seats, and smoked the nice cigarette Bayard gave him afterwards. The next time Bayard brought another guy with him, and they took him to a hotel up on Fulton. The new guy fucked Bucky up the ass while Bayard sat in a corner and jerked off to it, swearing the whole time. They both talk nice, in a way Bucky doesn't hear too often in Brooklyn, and their hands were soft and unlined when they touched and pinched and slapped him.

They took him to eat afterwards, at a nice restaurant that Bucky's passed by a few times but never been in, and buy him a steak dinner on top of the money they already paid him to get fucked and to let Bayard jizz all over his chest, his fist tight enough in Bucky's hair to hurt. Bucky'd worn his oldest trousers, the ones he wears when he's got nowhere in particular to be, thin and shiny at the knees, and if he still looked anything like he did when they left the hotel, his hair was messed and his cheeks were flushed and his mouth was swollen and red. He could see the other patrons looking at him from the corner of their eyes and it felt pretty good.

Bayard's friend, Thomas, was the one who asked. Who told Bucky he throws these parties sometimes, in the city, for a few special friends of his. There could be a lot of money in it, if Bucky was willing to do - _more_ than what they'd all just done. They looked at Bucky expectantly, in a way he wasn't too sure how to read. He wasn't even really too sure what Thomas really wanted, but they stared at him like he was supposed to know, so he'd rolled his shoulders back and slouched down a little at the table, and asked how much.

It _was_ a lot of money. More than he takes in a month, and he ain't exactly starving. His mouth felt a little dry just at the thought of it. He cut himself a bite of steak to cover up the look on his face, but Bayard grinned and thumped Thomas on the shoulder like Bucky'd given them an answer already. 

Thomas just looked at Bucky, eyes solemn. Waiting. His fingers were wrapped around his glass, long and blunt and clean looking, like he hadn't stuffed them in Bucky's mouth just an hour ago, and then worked his asshole open enough to put his cock into it. It made Bucky feel hot all over just to look at them. 

"Yeah, okay," he'd said. "Okay."  


-

  
The night of the party, Bayard and his nice car pick Bucky up in the Village, a few blocks away from the train Bucky'd taken to get into the city. Bayard had offered to come out to Brooklyn, white glove service the whole way, but it hadn't felt right. All day he's been itching, nervous; he'd even snapped at Esther in the morning for singing too loud in the house. He'd felt bad afterwards, and taken her to get Italian ice from the carts near Prospect Park, but on the ride over he'd started to feel that itch again, right between his shoulder blades.

Bayard's already at the curb when Bucky strolls up, right in front of a fire hydrant like he's got no cares in the world. He grins through his cigarette as Buck gets in, and gives him a friendly pat on the knee, fingernails scraping for just a second on the inseam of Bucky's trousers. "You look good enough to eat," Bayard tells him.

 _Thanks_ feels like a strange thing to say to that, so Bucky says nothing. He lets his eyes go heavy and his mouth curl a little, and Bayard likes that. He likes that a lot. He smooths his hand up and onto Bucky's cock, still mostly soft, and leaves it there as he cuts from 4th Ave up over to Park. It's the look in Bayard's eyes more than anything that makes Bucky relax, shift over a little so Bayard can palm him through his trousers, tipping his head back against the seat. He knows that look well enough, and it's a heady one. They've got the windows down and everything, Bayard's hand rubbing him hard for anyone to see, if they only got close enough to look.

They stay on the east side of Central Park, and the streets get hushed as they roll uptown, like only the horses clopping alongside the park are low class enough to make any noise. Bayard smirks at him, like he thinks maybe this is what'll make Bucky blush, if not Bayard's hand slowly working the length of his cock. They pull up in front of a building that looks as grand as any of the others, only a discreet brass plate marking it a gentleman's club.

Bayard leaves his car out front, dropping the keys into the doorman's hand for it to become someone else's problem. Bucky trails along behind, hands in his pockets to cover up his hard on and also to look like he's used to getting led into doorman buildings. Everything on the inside is gold and glass, thick with cigarette smoke and the sound of laughter and music coming from some kind of lounge, on the other side of a beaded curtain. The doormen - plural - don't even look at him. The carpet under his feet feels as thick as ocean water. 

The elevator's gold too, and paneled in glass so Bucky gets to stare himself in the face as they go up, shabby looking in an old suit his mother had clucked her tongue to see him in. Bayard's standing close but not too close, watching the numbers rise with his hands in his pockets and his elbow just barely brushing against Bucky's. The back of the operator's head gives Bucky nothing. "Eight, sir," the operator says, colorlessly, and Bayard presses a dime into the guy's hand as he breezes out the gilded doors, not so much as a glance behind him.

Thomas is waiting for them in a suite of rooms that must take up most of the floor. The walls are bottle green, like glass that washes up on the shore, and on a normal day the place must look like empty, geometric lines, like some of the art shows he's gone to with Steve. Tonight it's covered in rich Oriental drapery and pillows, carpets thicker than the ones they got downstairs, peacock feathers and incense burners and bowls dripping with what Bucky can only assume are paste jewels. 

"Arabian Nights," Thomas says, watching Bucky take it all in. He smiles. He's dressed in some kind of robes, edged with gold ribbon. "It's a fancy dress party."

"And me with nothin' to wear," Bucky sighs, exaggerated, but Thomas laughs.

"Oh, we have something for you to wear," he says. "Go on, get comfortable. Our guests won't be here for a little while. Have a drink."

The drink they give him is nice, real nice, warm as it goes down his throat, so smooth it hardly feels like booze at all. They're both staring at him, Bayard with that thinly veiled hunger and Thomas with a sort of frank curiously. The itch is back, and he thinks about asking what they meant by - _more_ , that little catch in Thomas' voice.

"Where are you from?" Thomas asks.

It throws him, a little. He takes a sip of the whiskey, trying not to frown. He knows he sounds like exactly where he's from. They hadn't asked him about himself, the times before. Just a quick hesitation when they got his pants off and Thomas had asked, "you a Jew?"

And Buck had said, hands already curling into fists, "you gotta problem with Jews?"

And then Thomas had laughed and told him to get down on his knees. After that there hadn't been much talking at all. Just their hands on him, and the two of them talking to each other, saying _harder, make him beg for it._

"Indiana," Bucky hazards, and shrugs. "You know how it is."

"Never been," Thomas says, with a little smile. 

Bayard laughs, a little dry, and says to him, "I don't recommend it. My family has a few auto factories out there, it's just a big bowl of dust. Isn't it?"

Bucky sips his drink, shrugs again. He's never been west of Jersey. "So when's the party start?"

"Eager," Thomas says, "I like that."

"Maybe I gotta get up early for church," Bucky says, and lets his legs fall open a bit, lets Thomas take a good look. He can feel Thomas' eyes dragging up his body like there are hands all over him.

They leave Bayard in the living room. Thomas leads him through whisper quiet rooms, all of them the cold, symmetrical spaces he'd been expecting from the first, grand and beautiful. The bed - Thomas', he can only assume - is the first thing he sees that looks like something you can sit down on. It's a mile wide and shines dully in the light, like silk oughta, and spread out in the middle of it is something gold. 

"Come here," Thomas says, and pats the bed besides him. It's as soft as it looks, and it smells like a dream. Thomas pulls out a cigarette from a small gold case in his jacket, and holds it up for Bucky to see. Their knees are touching. "You ever smoke this before?"

"Reefer," Bucky guesses, and Thomas gives a pleased nod. "Sure, yeah. I go dancing up in Harlem sometimes. It's around."

Thomas holds the cigarette out, parallel to the ground, one eyebrow cocked. 

"Sure," Bucky breathes again, mostly to himself, and leans forward to take it direct from Thomas' hand. His lips brush against Thomas' fingertips. His chin touches the heel of Thomas' palm. He draws back only far enough for Thomas to light it for him. 

The smoke's still in his lungs when Thomas knots a hand into Bucky's hair and crashes their mouths together, so when he breathes out it flows right into Thomas'. They trade it back and forth, the cigarette held awkwardly in Bucky's fingers, Thomas' hands moving over his chest and throat, skimming down and over his cock, hard again and aching. Bucky's half dressed by the time the cigarette's half smoked, and his body's taken on the slow, warm quality of molasses. He breathes in the smell of cologne and sweat. He breathes in the sweet taste of Thomas' mouth. He breathes in smoke. Somewhere far away, he can hear the front door opening and closing, and Bayard's voice over the phonograph. Someone's laughing. It's so quiet, in their little room; so far away. 

"Here," Thomas whispers, and helps Bucky out of the rest of his clothes. Stands him naked and shivering a little between Thomas' knees, runs his hands up and down Bucky's sides until he's shivering for real.

"Ah ah ah," Thomas whispers, and presses one damp kiss to the head of Bucky's cock. "Save it for the party."

"Okay," Bucky agrees, faintly, and lets Thomas press him onto his knees, waits as he reaches backwards to snag that glittering pool of gold off the bed. 

It's a mask. 

It's heavier than he's expecting, and cool to the touch. There's a lattice of thin rings that lay across the bridge of his nose and along the sides of his face, and rows of delicate chain connecting them all together, covering him from cheekbones to chin. There are two more thin chains that snake up his forehead and connect to the knot in the back, taking some of the weight off the bottom half of his face. Thomas takes his time putting it on, smoothing Bucky's hair back under it. It makes a soft, musical sound when Bucky moves. 

"One more thing," Thomas tells him, and hooks a long, gold chain to the bottom of it, just above his Adam's apple. 

Bucky reaches up to touch his own face, a little uncertainly. He looks up into Thomas' eyes, not sure of what he wants to ask. There's gold everywhere, filling the corners of his vision. He can _smell_ it, faint above the cologne and the soft, sweet smell of the bedroom. "You weren't expecting this," Thomas says, and strokes two fingers along the underside of Bucky's jaw. 

Bucky can speak through the mask - there's nothing stopping him - but he just shakes his head. The chains rustle softly.

"It's just a game," Thomas tells him, his hand stroking Bucky's hair. "Like I said. Just a party, for some nice friends of mine. You ever dress up for a party? It's fun, isn't it?"

Hesitantly, Bucky nods. Thomas smiles down on him. It's the first time all night that he's thought about where the exits are, if he should keep hold of his clothes. Like he's reading Bucky's mind, Thomas rubs both thumbs over the mask, pressing the cool metal into Bucky's skin. "Relax," he says, soft like he's talking to a dog, and draws a hand back, slapping Buck on one cheek and then the other, just hard enough that he rocks a little, falling forward into the vee of Thomas' legs. His cock rubs up against the bed and Buck puts a hand out to steady himself, his breath harsh sounding in the still room. Something in his head goes quiet.

Thomas uses the chain to tilt his chin up, trails his fingertips along the vulnerable line of Bucky's throat. "Gorgeous," he says, and Bucky relaxes into the touch, forgets about the exits. 

He's led back out into the party like that, stark naked, the long chain wrapped loose around Thomas' fist. Everyone turns and looks at him. Bayard - he thinks it's Bayard, his sluggish mind registering masks all around him, everyone's face covered up - gasps at the sight of him. There's a surge in the room as Thomas leads him over to a long, low couch and installs him there, latching the chain onto a gold ring almost flush in the wall behind him - like they all wanna step forward and grab a piece, but no one's got the guts to do it just yet. 

He settles in sideways, one elbow up on the soft arm of the couch, legs loose and long beside him. Like one of the marble statues they got in the Met, gleaming and unfathomable. Like a tiger in the zoo, tail lashing. He wants to laugh out loud: three hours ago he'd jogged down the subway steps at Nostrand Ave, dodging some stewbum sleeping on the steps, flat out running when he saw the train already standing on the Manhattan bound platform, his cheek still warm from his mother's kiss goodbye. Seems like years ago, now. Seems like a hundred miles away.

"Sure," he'd said, and he was in it now, in Alibaba's cave - but instead of forty thieves there are ten or so masked men with drinks in their hands and gleaming rings on their fingers. A special party, for special friends, friends with money enough to do this here in beautiful private rooms instead of some back alley or Times Square bath house. 

Someone puts a hand on his leg. Strokes it, the rings on their fingers catching on the fine hair on Bucky's calves, sending little shivers through him. His cock heavy on his thigh, not hard enough yet to stand up but enough that he aches as the hand shifts up, inches closer to it. Putting on a show for the others. Bayard, maybe. Showing off the party favor, the main attraction: the wild animal from Brooklyn.

He keeps his face still under the mask, doesn't let any of the laughter show. It'd probably only sound hysterical and anyway some of it's melting under the cool touch of hands on him, one pulling his leg up so his foot is flat on the couch, the other wrapping gently around his balls, tugging them out from the cradle of his legs. There's music playing, soft and smooth like a five piece is going in the other room. He knows the song. Danced to it with a girl only last week, could probably sing along with it if he wasn't - 

There's a touch in his hair, bringing him back around. One of them standing next to the couch has his robes spread open and his cock out like an offering. Pale, soft hands, a nice looking cock. Bucky can't do much about it with the mask on but he leans forward, rubs his cheek and then the gold chains over it, slowly, careful not to pinch. The guy's hand stutters on his cock, gripping and squeezing, so Bucky takes hold of that too, looking up through his eyelashes and the haze of gold all around him. He's only looking at a mask. Dark eyes through the little holes, older looking than he'd've thought from how nice the cock is in his hand, soft little gasps from behind it. Just some kind of paper mâché mask.

The hand on his balls come back wet, slicker than Vaseline, and stroke over his asshole, spread his cheeks just a little so everyone can see. Bucky's head tips back along the couch, his eyes fluttering closed - his grip slackening just a second on the cock he's got in his right hand. Thinking, _finally_. The air feels thick in his lungs, thicker now that a few more guys have pulled open the dumb robes they got on (most of them just plain naked underneath) and are tugging at their dicks, getting ready.

_Getting ready?_

His whole body feels lit up. He's been ready to come for hours, been ready to be fucked all day. He wonders where Thomas is, and then doesn't wonder about anything when two of those slick fingers slide right into him, huge and overwhelming. He looks down at himself, at whoever's sitting on the couch touching him - Bayard, he's almost sure of it, and they reach up and stroke a hot hand over his belly when they see him looking, soothing - and they're barely in past the first knuckle. He's never done it like this before - high - never been fingered or sucked or fucked on marijuana, but this is always, always his favorite part. 

The first few minutes, when even the smallest intrusion feels impossible. That they'd never manage it, they'd never manage to get their cock in deep enough to fuck him the way he wants, every touch an exercise in agony and anticipation. 

Someone's cradling his face. The man whose cock he's holding. Their fingers tighten until they've got his face titled as far back as it'll go, and the fingers in his ass slide in and out, working him open, and he's so _hard_ , he's ready for it, _please_.

Together they shift him until he's turned around, one knee on the couch and the other foot braced on the ground, too tall to fit entirely. There's a moment where the chain wraps around his neck and he has to bring up a hand to untangle himself when no one does it for him. The mask behind him settles both knees on the couch and pulls his robes open. Rubs the head of his dick over Bucky's asshole, getting it nice and wet from whatever they used to open him up. And finally, _finally_ , the slow slide inside, Bucky's arms shaking a little where he's gripping the arm of the couch, _finally_.

There are hands all over him, lighting up every nerve. Some of the men are standing close in a ring around them, touching his face, petting his back, rubbing their cocks or sometimes each other's. The wet sound of it fills his ears, drowning out the soft music from the phonograph and what they're saying to each other and any thoughts he still had left in him. The chains make shivery noises as he's bounced, hips angled and legs spread to get deeper, _more, God_. He's dissolving, his whole body given entirely over to the fuck and the eyes on him and the urgent need to come.

It takes him over like a wave, his cock untouched, like _ten_ waves, spreading out from his belly all the way to his toes and fingers and the crushed, pleading whimpers that escape his throat. The guy inside him still pumping away, like he didn't notice Bucky shaking and gasping, didn't feel the clench on his cock. So good, so _good_ , like he could go right over the edge again. For a second he thinks _maybe_ and then the guy thrusts so hard Buck's driven forward onto his elbows, and comes too, loud and long. 

For an endless span of time he's nowhere. He's nobody. He doesn't exist. All he can hear is the sound of his own heartbeat, roaring in his ears. His fingers flex on air. The mask brushes soft against his chest where his chin's dipped down, the long chain cool where it's draped over his shoulder. The guy pats at him, clumsily, fingers sliding on Bucky's sweaty skin, and pulls out. Jesus God and all the saints. He can barely catch his breath. He wants to laugh for hours. 

He feels the couch dip behind him, and a hand wrapping around his hip. It almost doesn't register, and then he's pulled back, steadied, only the briefest pause before -

He gasps, his whole body stiffening, shocked. He looks back over his shoulder and it's someone else, he thinks, probably, someone _new_ behind him who's flushed all the way down their chest, their fingers rubbing around the rim of his asshole, touching where their cock is pushing in and out of him. 

He has a moment of brilliant clarity - the thought ripping like a bullet through him - how _stupid_ he'd been, not to know. 

And then it feels - fuck it feels _good_ , feels _filthy_ , wet and open like he's been at this for hours, like those endless summer days they had when this was all brand new. _Sure_ , he thinks, _shit, okay, okay_ , and sets his forehead down against his wrists and lets himself feel all of it. The sweat on his back and chest, the snap of the man's hips against his ass, the soft stupid _uh uh uh_ sounds coming out of his own mouth as the air's driven out of his lungs. 

Then someone's hand is in his hair, skimming down over the mask, and he's surprised all over again when they yank abruptly up on the chain and come all over his face. 

He'd flinched, hard - but some of it still lands in the corner of his eye and he has a few seconds of panicked blindness before he can fumble a hand free to wipe it away. He's coughing, reflexively, even though none of it got near his mouth.

"Yeah, show him who's boss," someone mutters. Another says, "who's the tough guy now," and then, "fucking garbage." Then someone else is shoving their cock in his face, rubbing the head of it over his cheeks, down where his mouth is behind the mask, like they could push right through the chains into the wet clutch of his throat. And then they do - yanking the mask up just far enough to get to his mouth, one thumb on the dip in his chin to push his jaw down, hold him open on both ends.

Everything after that gets blurry. 

He hardly registers when the second guy finishes in his asshole, when a third takes his place. It hurts a little, he can feel it starting to hurt even as they drizzle more of that slick oil down the crack of his ass, as it's pushed into him with fingertips, some of it coming out again and dripping down his thighs with the rest of the mess in him. It's so _loud_ , all around him - everyone groaning, the slap of skin against skin or a slap for real, across his face and his ass, bright and stunning. He can't even brace himself - he's getting shoved back and forth so hard he keeps gagging on the cock in his mouth - so he can't move his hands from where they're gripping the cushion but _God_ he wants someone to touch him, he's dying for a hand or a mouth on his cock, _please please_ someone get him off again.

The guy comes in his throat and Bucky chokes on it, hard enough that the guy fucking him slows down for just a second, hard enough that the next guy who steps up to his face pushes two fingers between his lips and drags the jizz out from where it's coating his tongue, letting it drip down off Buck's chin and onto the floor before he sticks his cock in Buck's mouth. 

It's all he can do to keep his throat open and his jaw stretched wide, his eyes watering, sucking in great gulps of air through his nose whenever he can. 

He loses track. Of the guys behind him. Of the ones in front. 

They haul him up and into someone's lap, steadying him so he doesn't sink down onto the guy's cock too fast. This guy's as tall as he is and Bucky's shaking thighs are draped over his, knees spread wide to either side, his toes only barely touching the floor. _No more_ , Bucky wants to say, loose limbed and shivering all over, _please no more_ but someone's tugged the mask down again and he _can't_ , can only loll his head over the guy's shoulder, full weight pressing back against the guy's chest, and sob dryly as the man clamps his hands on Bucky's hips and starts driving into him. 

Cries more now that he can finally get a grip on his own cock and start frantically jerking it. More when someone goes to their knees and starts sucking him. He's turned inside out by the feel of it, he's going to die, this will kill him.

When he comes again, the mask muffles his screams.

They lay him down on the couch, uncaring of the jizz and the sweat and the oil. He scrabbles weakly at the mask, trying to get it off, and someone pulls his hands away and holds them above his head. Someone else grabs his legs and pulls them up too, folding him in half, legs spread enough to show all of them his asshole, loose and leaking jizz. It doesn't even matter. He's years away from shame. He can't move. He can't resist. All he can do is shake as someone kneels up and puts their mouth on him, licking long stripes over his hole and up the seam of his balls, sucking his soft and aching cock into their mouth. 

He feels warm spatters all over his body. Someone's come on him. Maybe more than one. He can't even open his eyes to look.  


-

  
They let him wash, after. The bathroom's bigger than some apartments he's seen. He's woozy and listing on his feet, and when he touches down there his whole body flares up so bad he thinks he might cry. His face is scraped and red from where the mask bit into it, covered in dozens of faint little scratches. He walks like he's drunk and who knows, maybe he is. He thinks maybe he's coming down from the reefer, if only because he has to sit down gingerly on the edge of the tub in order to button up his pants. The place is empty when he comes out. Party over.

There's only Bayard, leaning up against the bar in his suit again like nothing happened, like the room doesn't still stink of sex and incense. Someone's draped a blanket over the ruined couch and Bucky doesn't stare at it as Bayard hands over the money, waits with a patient smile as Buck counts it out. 

"There's a little extra," Bayard tells him. "Take a cab home, kid. You look like you're about to fall over."

He walks Bucky to the elevator, and kisses him just before the door opens. "Maybe we'll see you again," he says, with a smile.

The elevator doors close and Bucky gets to stare at his own face again for eight agonizing floors.

There's a cab waiting outside, like they'd called it for him. "Brooklyn," Bucky says as he crawls in, and the guy spits, "Fuck you, get oudda here with that shit."

"Come _on_ ," Bucky groans, grinding the heels of both hands into his eyes. "Fine, take me to - just fuckin' take me downtown, drop me off at a 7th Ave IRT, all right?"

The train's mostly empty when he gets on at Park Place. An Irish girl with a pretty feather in her hat, bent over and examining a ladder in her stockings. Three old Jewish men, their heads as close together as their big fur hats would allow. A Puerto Rican woman in a nurses' outfit, dozing. He stands anyway. The shake of the cars rattles him all the way down to his bones. He doesn't think about anything at all. 

It's quiet when he's off the train. Late enough that the neighborhood's gone to bed. The ten minute walk from Nostrand and Eastern Parkway is agony. The darkened windows of home a greater blessing than he coulda prayed for. 

He slips his shoes off right inside the door, wincing when he has to bend down for them. He skips the creaky third step and hugs the wall on the sixth and seventh. He leaves the light off in the kitchen and fills a glass of water for himself in the dark, drinks the whole thing standing at the big sink. 

Frank's sawing logs in his corner of the room. Bucky strips in the dim light coming in from the street lamps. His hands are still shaking. His room looks strange and unfamiliar, like he’s gone into someone else’s house. He balls up his dirty, wet underwear and toes it under the dresser, pulls on a clean pair and has to close his eyes at the cool touch of it on his skin. Stumbles the last few feet to his bed and pulls back the blanket.

Stops. Stands there for a minute, even though he's ten miles away from surprised. And then climbs into bed and curls up around Steve, tucking his knees behind Steve's bony ones.

"Mmmm," Steve sighs, stirring, and then, "oh, there you are."

"What're you doing here?" Bucky whispers, into the soft hair at the nape of Steve's neck. 

"Came lookin' for you," Steve whispers back, his voice slow and sleep-muddy. "Your ma gave me some dinner and we played cards for a while."

He fidgets out of Bucky's grip, rolling onto his back and opening up one arm to wrap around Bucky's shoulders. Bucky shifts automatically, one hand pulling Steve's knee up and over his hip, the way Steve will anyway after a few minutes. His heart thuds softly against Bucky's chest.

Steve tugs the blanket up around Bucky's ears and he's warm like a rooftop on a summer day, the kind of warm that seeps into your bones and fills you all the way up. Bucky's got his head on the pillow, his nose tucked up under Steve's ear, Steve's hand moving through his hair like he's petting a dog. Bucky breathes him in deep: that Steve smell of cheap soap and coal smoke, the staleness of his breath, the worn thin cotton of one of Bucky’s old nightshirts. 

"How's your ma," Bucky whispers. He's floating a little, still high enough on the reefer that he feels the shift of Steve's body against his like an ocean tide. Across the room, Frank snorts twice and rolls over to face the wall. Steady, even breaths that Buck can barely hear over the pounding of his own heart.

"Go to sleep, dummy," Steve breathes, his hand heavy and limp on the nape of Bucky’s neck, blunt nails scratching briefly over Bucky’s skin. “Gotta get up … early. Go t’Mass.”

His hand is still wrapped around Steve's thigh, holding their bodies flush together, and Steve’s hips push forward almost absently, rubbing his cock up against Bucky’s belly even as he slides back down into sleep. Bucky’s eyes slip closed. He closes his teeth down on the pillow instead of Steve’s neck and holds still, and breathes, and breathes, and breathes.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hansbekhart).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] All Gamblers Die Broke](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3808633) by [sallysparrow017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysparrow017/pseuds/sallysparrow017)




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